If Henri found it difficult to speak, with Denot the difficulty was much greater.  The injuries which he had inflicted on his friend, the insults which he had heaped on his sister, rushed to his mind.  He thought of his own deep treachery, his black ingratitude; and his disordered imagination could only conceive that Henri had chosen the present moment to secure a bloody vengeance.  He forgot that he had already been forgiven for what he had done:  that his life had been in the hands of those he bad injured, and had then been spared by them, when their resentment was fresh and hot, and when he had done nothing to redeem his treason.  He had, he thought, reconciled himself to the cause of La Vendee; but still he felt that he could not dare to look on Larochejaquelin as other than an enemy.

Denot started back as he recognized his visitor, and Henri’s first object was to close and re-bolt the door, so that their interview might not be interrupted.  “Adolphe,” he said, in a voice intended to express all the tenderness which he felt, “I am delighted to have found you.”

Denot had rushed to a miserable deal table which stood near his bed, and seized his sword, which stood upon it; and now stood armed and ready for assault, opposite to the man who loved him so dearly.  His figure and appearance had always been singular, but now it was more so than ever.  He had been sleeping in his clothes, and he had that peculiar look of discomfort which always accompanies such rest.  His black, elfish, uncombed locks, had not been cut since he left Durbelliere, and his beard for many days had not been shorn.  He was wretchedly thin and gaunt; indeed, his hollow, yellow cheeks, and cadaverous jaws, almost told a tale of utter starvation.  Across his face he had an ugly cicatrice, not the relic of any honourable wound, but given him by the Chevalier’s stick, when he struck him in the parlour at Durbelliere.  Nothing could be more wretched than his appearance; but the most lamentable thing of all, was the wild wandering of his eyes, which too plainly told that the mind was not master of itself.

Henri was awe-stricken, and cut to the heart.  What was he to say to the poor wretch, who stood there upon his guard, glaring at him with those wild eyes from behind his sword!  Besides, how was he to defend himself if he were attacked?

“Adolphe,” he said, “why do you raise your sword against your friend?  Don’t you see that I have come as your friend:  don’t you see that I have no sword?”

The other hesitated for a moment, with the weapon still raised as though for defence; and then flinging it behind him on the floor, exclaimed:  “There, there—­you may kill me, if you will,” and having said so, he threw himself on the bed, and sobbed aloud, and wailed like an infant.

Henri knelt down on the floor, by the side of the low wooden stretcher, and putting his arm over Adolphe’s shoulder, thought for a while what he could say to comfort the crushed spirit of the poor wretch, whose insanity had not the usual effect of protecting him from misery.  It occurred to him that his late achievements, as leader of the Breton peasants, in which, at any rate, he had been successful, would be the subject at present most agreeable to him, and he determined, therefore, to question him as to what he had done.